


Bloodlines

by Piccolo_is_green



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe(s), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Saiyan Culture, Saiyans, Vegebul Smutfest, tpth, when do I not write angst lol?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-10-26 05:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17739494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piccolo_is_green/pseuds/Piccolo_is_green
Summary: Three years after the Androids first appeared and killed most of Earth's warriors, Bulma finds a way to escape her universe to save herself and the two boys in her care. However, the universe she escapes to is not the one she was expecting, and the men she was once closest to know nothing about her.ORBulma uses her time machine and ends up in a world where Kakarot purged Earth, Vegetasei still exists, and Vegeta the Fourth is King.Written for TPTH's Smutfest 2019.





	1. Gooseflesh

**Author's Note:**

> This is a canon divergence that splits from the Mirai timeline, not the usual one. The first major change I make is that Bulma made a time machine waaay faster than in the original story. I'm going to say she just had access to better materials in this alternate universe.
> 
> Since this is for Smutfest, I promise you there will be smut... eventually. I've got a bit of plot to get through before we get there first, though. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> \- Pic

She was shivering more than she ever had in her entire life, her teeth chattering together painfully as a blue-skinned soldier dragged her down a dingy corridor, the lights flickering overhead. Everything in here was too cold for her; whatever creatures ran this ship liked it cool, and didn’t care that their prisoners might die of hypothermia. They were somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship, and if she was smart she’d be trying to spot a way to escape, but all she could think about was Trunks and Gohan.

“My son, where is he?” she tried again, stumbling along beside the alien that gripped her wrist tightly. He jerked her forward and ignored her pleas. “Where is he!” she cried again, trying to slow the soldier down, but it was no use. If she didn’t want a dislocated shoulder, she needed to comply.

They passed row after row of empty cells, and she shook her head in terror. Once, when he was still trying to convince her that she should be terrified of him, Vegeta had described a slave ship to her. A shiver ran down her spine as she realised she was likely inside one.

“Mama!”

“ _ Trunks! _ ” she screamed,the sound of her baby’s cry giving her an adrenaline rush like no other. “Take me to him!” she demanded, kicking at the soldier with her bare feet. He shoved her against the wall, banging her head hard enough to make her ears ring, and then yanked her behind him, dragging her along the floor until they reached a dead end. She caught a glimpse of Trunks’ face behind metal bars and barely heard the sound of the cell door opening, too focused on her crying child to care that she was being thrown into a cage. The door to the cell locked behind her, and she collapsed on her knees, sobbing as Trunks ran into her arms. Gohan sat against the far end of the cell looking exhausted, his cheeks stained with dried tears, but he flashed her a small smile as she met his gaze.

Trunks’ little body was shaking. They’d stuck a collar around his tiny neck and she felt like vomiting at the thought of it; she’d seen it used on another prisoner, and the thought of that electric shock going through him chilled her to the core. She glanced back up and saw the same collar on Gohan. He noticed what she was looking at — he’d always been a smart kid, and at 14 years old he was brighter than most adults — and lifted a hand to touch at the metal band. “It’s got some sort of ki-inhibitor,” he told her. “I can’t access my power. I can’t do anything.”

She could tell Gohan blamed himself, even though he shouldn’t. She tried to calm her own breathing, to be strong for her son and her nephew. She’d done it before, and she’d do it again, and get them out of this mess somehow. “Shh, ‘s’okay, sweetie,” she whispered, hugging Trunks tight to her chest and rocking back and forth. It wasn’t okay — nothing had been okay since the day Vegeta had died at the hands of the Androids — but she wasn’t going to tell that to her three year old. She just hoped they’d make it out of here alive.

The past few days blurred together into a mess of jumbled thoughts. Her elation at finishing the time machine, the terror of seeing Gohan fight and be knocked out right in front of her, the pain of watching her city be demolished in another Android attack. She’d dragged Gohan’s unconscious body into the time machine and bundled Trunks in after him, desperate to escape before the Androids returned to finish them off. She hadn’t cared  _ when  _ she was escaping to; she’d just plugged in a random date in the past to save what was left of her family from the disaster. 

What she hadn’t counted on was  _ where _ she was escaping to. Something had gone wrong during that short trip inside the time machine; her calculations must have been off somehow. She hadn’t transcended time at all, but instead dimensions. At least that’s the only explanation she had for what she had seen when she stepped out of the time machine with Trunks in her arms. They were still on Earth, still within West City (she had spotted the familiar West City Tower in the distance), but  _ this _ Earth was populated by brutish aliens that took one look at her and threw them all in captivity, and before she knew it she was being stripped naked, showered, and processed onto a ship destined for Kami-knows-where.

There was nothing in the cell but a single hole in the corner that she assumed was a squat toilet. She was thankful that they appeared to be the only captives down here; there was no privacy at all, the gaps between the metal bars wide enough to fit a hand through. At least she wouldn’t have to take a piss in front of strangers. The cold metal of the cell floor made her bones ache, but Trunks was warm in her arms, and as his sobs died down and he settled into sleep she lay back, keeping him on her chest. She heard Gohan move and he shuffled forward until he lay next to her, his lanky body pressing close to hers to preserve warmth. 

She stared at the ceiling, noting the camera that trained on them, until her vision blurred with tears. When she was younger she used to think she was invincible — or at least her friends were, and they were always there to protect her. Now she was here with two kids, in a place even more dangerous than the one she had fled, and she feared for their lives. She’d escaped bad situations before, but she couldn’t see a way out of this one. 

**. . .**

 

The world around her was rocking, or at least it seemed so as she came awake. Trunks crouched over her, shaking her shoulder, and she gasped as she took in their surroundings, terror flooding her once more as she eyed the metal bars that caged them.

“Mama, we’re moving,” Trunks whined. Beside her, Gohan jumped to his feet, bringing his hands up defensively.

Trunks was right. She sat up, feeling queasy and off-balance. The entire room was on a tilt. Trunks covered his ears with his hands as an awful screeching sound reverberated through the ship, the whole place shuddering. “What is that!” Gohan yelled, his eyes wide with fear.

“Tearing metal!” she yelled back. After multiple Android attacks, she was familiar enough with the sound.

She didn’t know what it meant, but hoped that it would be something good. She pulled Trunks closer to her and shifted back into the far corner of the cell, near the toilet. “I need to pee,” Trunks said, tugging on the sleeve of the generic shirt the aliens had put her in.

“Okay, pee in the hole, then,” she whispered, holding him steady and helping him pull his pants down, all the while looking out for movement in the corridor. Sirens began to scream, the lights above turning an eerie red, and Trunks jumped. “It’s okay, it’s okay!” she sang loudly, rubbing his back reassuringly. “Just pee straight, honey!”

“Mama, will you go pee too?”

She helped Trunks pull his pants back up and nodded. “Mama has to pee, yeah.” As much as she wanted to be saved, she hoped to hell no one would come down the corridor while she was squatting over the toilet. The room was still rocking back and forth, and she steadied herself by holding onto Trunks’ shoulder. It definitely wasn’t an ideal situation, but she very much doubted that she’d see an ideal situation for a long time yet, and she did not want to piss her pants mid-rescue (or death). “Gohan, look away!” she ordered, yanking her rough pants down with one hand.

That business sorted, she took to examining the collar around Trunks’ neck while Gohan acquainted himself with the toilet. She didn’t dare try to remove the collar, but was hoping there’d be some sort of override that she could access. It was no use; the exterior of the collar was smooth and made of a compound she hadn’t seen before. 

She was thrown off her feet by an explosion within the ship, landing hard on her wrist, the heat of it blasting down the corridor with a roar. She cried out in pain and registered both boys standing protectively beside her, before noticing voices for the first time. They spoke in a mix of Standard and a language she hadn’t heard in years —  _ Saiyan! _

“ _ Hello! _ ” she yelled out, using the rudimentary Saiyan that Vegeta had taught her. “ _ I am an ally! _ ”

The voices grew closer, and she called out again, this time in Standard. “We’re trapped in here! My boys are Saiyans!” She hoped their blood would be enough to save them. Smoke was beginning to flood the place, making her cough, and she pulled Trunks onto the floor. “Keep low, sweetie,” she told him. “Here, cover your nose with your shirt. Gohan, you do the same!”

“Where are you?” a voice called, and her breath caught in her throat. She’d recognise that voice anywhere. “ _ Goku! _ ” she called out. “Goku, it’s me, Bulma! We’re down here! In the cells!”

Heavy footsteps rang out a second later, and Bulma let out a relieved laugh as Goku appeared outside the cell. Of all the places to find him… “Goku, thank Kami you’re here! I never thought I’d see you again!”

“Stop calling me that!” he snapped, his brows turned down in a furious frown. He tore through the cell bars with his bare hands, bending them apart easily, and stepped inside. “No one has called me that since I was a kid. Who the hell are you, woman? And what the fuck do you mean ‘your boys are Saiyan’?”

Bulma shrank back, staring up at this angry version of her friend while Gohan muttered “No, no,  _ no _ ,” over and over again. She took in  _ this _ Goku’s blue spandex and black armour, the scouter he wore over his left eye, his serious expression and dark gaze, and realised right away that she was looking at  _ Kakarot _ . She took a deep breath, then coughed, her eyes watering from the smoke.

“My son had a tail, see,” she wheezed, turning Trunks and lifting his shirt to reveal his tail scar. “His father was a Saiyan. Gohan’s father was a Saiyan,” she added, pointing at Gohan, who had turned a pale. “I’m an Earthling.”

“I know what you are.” Kakarot’s mouth turned down, clearly unhappy about his find. He clicked the side of his scouter. “I found the brats. They’re fucking half-breeds. Definitely not what was advertised. Their alien mother is here, too.”

She couldn’t hear the reply, but it was obviously enough to satisfy this Kakarot. He grunted and grabbed Trunks and Gohan with one hand each. Bulma lunged forward, “Don’t hurt them!”

“I’m saving them, idiot!” He pulled them back through the hole in the bars that he’d made and glared at her as if she only had half a brain. “Well, are you coming?”

Bulma nodded and followed after him, wrapping her shirt around her nose and mouth and doing her best to keep up with Kakarot’s pace. Two more Saiyans — females — appeared, the smallest one taking Trunks from Kakarot. Bulma could feel the heat of the fire growing closer, and the floor began to burn her bare feet, quickly becoming unbearable. “Kakarot!” she cried out, his shape barely visible through the thick smoke. She saw his silhouette stop, before he appeared in front of her, slinging her over his shoulders. She couldn’t see either boy anymore. “How do you know my name?!” he growled, but she couldn’t answer, couldn’t breathe through the smoke, her lungs burning — 

**. . .**

 

She woke inside a coffin. At least, that’s what it appeared to be. After a few panicked moments spent slapping the ceiling of the box she was stored in, she realised the exit point was by her head, and her ‘coffin’ was a capsule-style bunk bed similar to the ones in the cheap hotels on the wrong side of town. She rolled onto her stomach in the small space and pushed at the lever on the inside of the opaque door. The glass slid away, revealing a small room filled with what seemed like a sea of Saiyan faces staring at her. 

“ _ Mama! _ ” 

Trunks sat on the floor amongst the battle-worn warriors and grinned up at her as she poked her head out, and she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Gohan sat beside him, a look of intense relief on his face.

“Hey baby,” she rasped, her throat still hoarse from the smoke inhalation. She could smell it in her hair, in her clothes, it seemed to permeate everything around her. She’d never felt so grubby in her life, but for once she didn’t care. The boys were safe, and that was all that mattered right now.

She shifted awkwardly within the small bedspace they’d put her in, sitting up and spinning on her butt until she was able to poke her legs out the opening of the bunk. She was on one of the higher ‘stories’, and there was a good 6 foot drop to the ground below her. Mindful of the many pairs of eyes on her, she jumped out, landing heavily on her feet.

Trunks rushed to her immediately, and she dropped to her knees, ignoring the Saiyans around her. Someone had removed the collar from his neck and dressed him in a miniature set of Saiyan clothing, complete with armour. She found it equally cute and disturbing, and pulled him to her, burning her nose in his hair. He smelled of smoke too, but she closed her eyes and let her body relax into the knowledge that they were still alive. Gohan watched on, fidgeting with the sleeve of his own Saiyan gear. With it on, he looked like a full-blooded Saiyan.

“Who are you?”

Bulma sat back on her knees and looked over at the man who had spoken. Kakarot — she was sure it was him — sat staring back at her with cold eyes. A Saiyan woman sat beside him, her legs casually propped in his lap, her eyes observing every move. 

“My name is Bulma Briefs. Like I told you before, I’m an Earthling.”

“Hey, aren’t Earthlings the ones you got rid of on your first mission?” one of the other Saiyans interrupted, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “Looks like you missed one!”

“Shut up!” Kakarot snapped, his eyes still trained on her. Bulma felt the blood drain from her face, and gripped Trunks tighter. Gohan looked as if he were going to start crying again. 

Goku’s mission had been to destroy all lifeforms on Earth; she’d found his ship years ago, and had heard the message programmed in his pod. In this universe, he must have succeeded.

Kakarot leaned forward, pushing the female’s legs off of him and resting his elbows on his knees. The movement was so reminiscent of Goku, but somehow Kakarot managed to make it seem  _ threatening _ . “The boys are half Saiyan, you said. Who is the father?”

What could she say? Her mind raced as she counted the Saiyans around her. There were eight of them, and they all looked pretty relaxed. She guessed Vegetasei was still around in this universe. She needed to convince them to keep her and the boys safe; she’d need to construct another time machine, one that could get them back to their universe. These bloodthirsty warriors were her only hope.

“Are we going back to Vegetasei?” she asked. 

Kakarot snarled at her. “ _ I _ am the one asking the questions here. The boys — who fathered them?”

They would have DNA testing on Vegetasei. She knew Saiyan technology had been advanced when it came to genetics; Vegeta had once described to her how he had been one of the many elite children conceived in a test tube, his father’s genetic material mixed with that of multiple females to create an ultimate warrior. He’d been ‘born’ in a pod. He never had a real mother.

Trunks’ parentage was always going to be a hard story to sell. Given who she was currently speaking to, Gohan’s would be even more difficult. She licked her lips, hesitating. “They have different fathers,” she began. “Gohan is my adopted nephew. His father died a long time ago. Trunks is my son, and his father is Prince Vegeta.”

She watched as her words registered with the small crowd of Saiyans, their faces going slack with shock before breaking into various states of humour or incredulity. Some of them snickered and muttered in Saiyan, until Kakarot sliced his hand through the air in an angry gesture, silencing them all. It was still so jarring to see him like this.

“Don’t fuck with me, woman.” 

“I’m  _ not! _ ” She raised her voice, sitting up straight and holding her chin high. Vegeta had always respected her mental strength, and she knew she couldn’t let herself appear weak in front of these Saiyans. “Prince Vegeta — Vegeta the Fourth — is Trunks’ father. He looks just like him, apart from his colouring.”

“Vegeta the fourth is  _ King _ ,” the Saiyan female next to Kakarot emphasised, her eyes narrowing, “and I highly doubt he would lower himself so far to fuck an alien like you.”

“Well the evidence says otherwise,” Bulma replied, nodding at her son. She was aware that Trunks was listening to every word. He understood far more than a regular three year old, and his body was tense in her arms as he sensed the danger. “I’m sure DNA tests back on Vegetasei will be able to show the truth.”

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Kakarot swore in Saiyan. It was the first word Bulma had ever learned from Vegeta, because he used it so often. He said something else to the rest of the Saiyans, and they all started to get up and move, many pulling themselves gracefully into the bunk beds and shutting themselves away. Within a minute only Kakarot was left, and she realised he must be their leader.

Gohan shifted closer towards her, something that didn’t go unnoticed. “I’m not going to hurt her, boy,” Kakarot spoke.

“I know,” Gohan replied, his voice hoarse but strong. 

“Do you?”

“I can sense it. You’re going to take us back with you to your planet.”

Kakarot snorted. Bulma clenched her teeth at the sight of it; it was such a Saiyan thing to do, and yet seemed so wrong coming from someone with Goku’s face. “You can  _ sense _ it? What kind of bullshit is that.”

“It’s something my father taught me before he died,” Gohan replied, and Bulma heard the finality in his voice.

“Who was your father, then?”

“Just a low-class warrior. You wouldn’t know him.”

Bulma bit her cheek to keep herself from giving anything away. Gohan was a smart boy, and she always believed his instincts. If he’d chosen to hide his parentage for the time being, that suited her, so long as they all remained in one piece.

Kakarot lifted his chin, nodding towards her. “Tell me kid, does this alien tell the truth? Is that brat the son of the King?”

“Yes.”

Kakarot let out a string of curses. Bulma was sure she heard “ _ going to get me fucking killed _ ,” in there, but because she wasn’t fluent in Saiyan, she couldn’t be sure. When he’d finished his tirade, he addressed her again. “How did you know my name?”

“You lived on Earth when you were a kid.”

“I purged Earth when I was a kid.”

Bulma swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat at that thought. In this universe, everyone on Earth that she’d ever known was dead. Hell,  _ she _ was dead. She scrambled to come up with a legitimate explanation, one that would work for the time being. She remembered Tight’s strange association with the Galactic Patrol.

“You killed my friends. I escaped — the Galactic Patrol saved me. I — the Patrol knew your name.”

“Fucking Patrol,” he swore, “they always do know too much.” He snorted, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “Sorry about your planet, I guess.” He shrugged one shoulder with a level of nonchalance that made her feel sick all over again. “Orders are orders.”

She didn’t have anything to say to that. Thankfully, she didn’t have to. Trunks, with the impeccable timing that three year olds often have, announced that he was hungry. Kakarot nodded and opened a drawer under the seat he sat on, pulling out a handful of what looked like muesli bars. He unwrapped one and bit into it, speaking through his mouthful. “Help yourself, kid.” Trunks ran forward, and Bulma rose to her feet, watching cautiously as both boys began to eat. She took a bar from Gohan and tried it herself, feeling hungry enough to ignore the salty, gamey taste and strange texture.

“You two are in the beds up there,” Kakarot pointed out, nodding to where she had woken up. “The brat stays with one of you. Bathroom is through there. We’ll land on Vegetasei tomorrow. Don’t say a word to anyone about the brat. I’ll get you an audience with the King, so you better not be lying.”

“Thank you.”

If he heard her — which he would have — he didn’t show it. He left the room, the door sliding closed behind him, and Bulma breathed a sigh of relief.

“You okay, Gohan?”

“No. Not really.”

She patted him on the back, unsure of what she could say to make the situation seem any better. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” He was just a bit taller than her now, and his big brown eyes met her with such sadness that she found herself tearing up.

“It’s not yours, either,” she told him, pulling him into a hug.

**. . .**

 

She couldn’t sleep. Trunks lay curled against her side, his body radiating warmth that was comforting, but still, she couldn’t sleep. She stared up at the ceiling of her bunk, tracing the flecks of brown  _ something  _ left on there (she had a feeling it was dried blood, which set her skin crawling), her mind refusing to slow down.

She’d lost all track of time. She had no idea when they’d land on Vegetasei, only that she’d need to be on guard and ready to argue her way out of any situation when they did. Goku had been a low-class warrior in her universe, and yet this Kakarot seemed relatively sure that he’d get her access to the King.

The  _ King. _

She wondered how different this Vegeta would be. How would he react to her story? Would he listen at all, or…

She rolled onto her side, as if that movement alone could banish all her worst-case scenarios. She didn’t want to think about death; she’d seen enough of it to last a lifetime. Trunks sighed and snuggled into her back, his hands tugging on the rough shirt she’d been dressed in by the slavers.

She closed her eyes and thought of the Vegeta she knew, bringing to mind his quiet presence, the curious looks he used to give her, the way he observed everything in a room. Behind her eyelids she saw his body, naked in the shower, cheeks flushed as she touched him for the first of many times. She imagined him here, wrapping his arms around her as he would after sex, those vulnerable moments something she knew he’d shown only her. She tried to recall the way he smelled; it had been amazing, but she couldn’t remember…

She took a shaky breath through her mouth, and then another, her tears flowing freely now. Three years, and she still grieved for him as if it were the first day of this loss. “I wish you were here,” she whispered into the quiet room.

She dreamed of a Prince that held her close and whispered  _ “I am.” _

 


	2. Quaking

Kakarot heard Celipa enter the cockpit, but he didn’t bother turning around to face her. She was the eldest daughter of his father’s friends — Fasha and Toma — and a few years younger than himself. He’d been just shy of ten years when he’d first met her on the day he’d returned from purging Earth, and since then she’d been a constant (if somewhat irritating) presence in his life. More recently, he’d given in to the temptation of her flesh, and now found himself somewhat trapped with a woman he did not particularly want.  _ Convenience _ is what drove him back to her every time. At the end of the day she was the easiest option he had when he felt like getting his dick wet, morality be damned.  

“Are you ignoring me again?”

“I’m focusing on piloting the ship,” he grumbled, switching the ship over to manual. He slowed the craft as they approached Vegetasei, turning off all propulsion and putting it into a lazy orbit around the planet.

“You’re holding back the landing. Why?” 

Kakarot sighed and spun his chair around to face her. “We’ve got a brat on board that claims to be the King’s son, and another brat that has my father’s face, and —”

“Your face.”

“What?”

“Kakarot, that kid has  _ your face _ . If you’re trying to say he’s Bardock’s, that’s bullshit, and you know it. Bardock has only ever had eyes for Gine.”

“That kid isn’t mine.”

“I didn’t say he was.”

“You said  _ my face _ .”

“Your face, Bardock’s face, your cousin’s face… what’s his name again? Turles? Anyway,” she broke off with a wave of her hand, “maybe I just wanted to see your reaction to the idea of you fathering a brat.”

Kakarot’s tail flicked irritably against his seat. “He probably is Turles’.  _ Shit _ .”

Celipa cocked her head to the side, her messy crop of hair brushing against her shoulders as she narrowed her eyes at him. “So we’re hiding up here because you don’t want to be seen bringing back a half-breed kid with your face. I guess that rumour-mill must be getting to ya, huh? You should know the rest of the crew are getting pretty frustrated with how many delays we’ve already had.”

Kakarot ground his teeth together. “I’m well aware, but I’m not about to bring back some half-blood royal in broad daylight without speaking to the King first, and he’s currently  _ out of communication _ .” He was practically growling by this point, but he didn’t care. “It’s not  _ my _ fault we got delayed, anyway. So if you don’t have any further information for me that I don’t already know, you can fuck off back to your bed.”

He watched her flinch at his words, before she pressed her lips together and tilted her chin up haughtily as if she were a queen and not the low-born commoner she was. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to show the hurt he’d caused, but Kakarot sensed it anyway, and felt the gnawing of guilt in his gut. It was always this way with her.

“Goodnight, Captain,” she spoke formally, although her salute to him was anything but.

Left alone once more, Kakarot stared out at the planet they orbited, swearing silently to himself. Vegeta had cut down subordinates for far less, and Kakarot knew he was playing with fire, his connection to the King built only on the fact that they had fought and trained together since they were teenagers. 

He also knew that if Vegeta truly challenged him, he wouldn’t hold back, even if he was fighting the King. He’d fight to the death. He’d  _ win _ . 

He couldn’t let that happen.

. . .

 

Bulma held Trunks’ hand tight in hers and followed the Saiyans down the ship’s ramp. She’d been unsure of the time of day until she stepped out of the ship into the night; and even then that didn’t give her many clues. She had a panicked few seconds staring off into the dark void, wondering if the planet even had a sun and  _ daytime, _ before she told herself to stop being ridiculous; and that of course there’d be a sun, and Vegeta would have told her otherwise if there wasn’t.

None of the Saiyans had granted her access to the ship’s viewports, which pissed her off, but not enough to act on it given the precarious situation her and the boys were in. She just had to hope there’d be other opportunities to see Vegetasei from space. 

One of the Saiyans behind her cleared their throat and she turned, following the group around the body of the ship. Her mouth fell open at the sight on the other side.

“Cool!” Trunks practically squealed, and she could feel him vibrating with excitement next to her. 

“Shh, sweetie,” she whispered, bending to pick him up, but she couldn’t blame him for being wired, given the circumstances. Over a hundred ships sat parked before them, parking lights glowing eerily in the mist. Long white trains that carried space pods scattered the area. And in the distance behind, sitting high above it all, glowed a stunning piece of architecture built atop a cliff. It was lit up to be seen, its white towers piercing the sky. A huge pillar descended underneath the main tower, providing a massive foundation for the structure. 

Somehow she knew immediately that this was the palace, and a lump formed in her throat as conflicting emotions hit her all at once; surprise and awe at the beauty of something undoubtedly  _ Saiyan, _ a sense of pride that her son  _ came from this _ , but above all a bubbling sense of anger at the injustice dealt to Vegeta, and the loss that he had carried with him his whole life. This had been his home, and it had been turned to ash.

“ _ Wow _ ,” Gohan sighed beside her. She nodded at him in agreement.

“It’s — this is special, Gohan.”

“Yeah.”

Trunks wiggled in her arms. Kakarot had given her a personal gravity device to wear on her wrist, explaining that it adjusted the planet’s gravity for her and any object (or child) that she touched, making it possible for her to move in ten times the gravity she was used to. Part of her was dying to pull apart all the technology around her and discover their secrets, but for now there were more pressing matters at hand. 

They crossed the tarmac, if she could call it that, and she caught movement out of the corner of her eye, almost tripping over herself as a hulking Saiyan appeared out the mist with a gun trained on them. Only Gohan’s steady hand on her elbow kept the panic at bay, and Kakarot’s familiar-but-strange voice rang out in Saiyan “ _ Stand down. _ ” The gun was lowered immediately, and Bulma wondered just how much power Kakarot wielded on this planet. In her universe he’d been considered low-class by birth, and she’d assumed it was the same, given that this Kakarot had also been sent to Earth.

Her gut knotted;  _ this _ Kakarot had plenty of blood on his hands. Without his brain injury, he appeared both intelligent and ruthless. It put her on edge.

She followed the Saiyans down a sloping path and into what appeared to be a village, relying on Gohan’s guiding presence and his odd “Careful Bulma, there’s a step,” to help her navigate in the dim light of the twin moons that glowed above, each less than half-full. 

She heard one female grumbling in Standard that she’d “Wanted to pick up supplies when they landed, but  _ somebody _ delayed our landing,” and she realised that Kakarot must have returned at night on purpose.

Kakarot, clearly unhappy from the tone of his voice, barked something quick in Saiyan that Bulma didn’t understand, and the group dispersed into the night, leaving her and the boys alone with the alien version of her old friend. She could see him staring at her in the moonlight, the dark making him seem even more dangerous and imposing, especially with the scouter strapped to his face. It brought back memories of Raditz, and the terror his arrival had wrought on them all. 

She was thankful for Gohan beside her; though he was only fourteen, he possessed both maturity and intelligence far beyond his years. In fact, the expression Gohan wore was almost identical to Kakarot’s, and for a moment she thought they could have been twins. Had Kakarot noticed the resemblance?

“Where to from here?” Bulma asked quietly, keeping her head high and meeting Kakarot’s stern gaze. She heard more than saw the Saiyan snort in response.

“Follow me. I need you to stay hidden while I sort this shit out. I am seriously putting my neck out for you, so you better not be bullshitting about your  _ connection _ to the King.”

“I appreciate it, Kakarot,” she told him genuinely. “I swear to you, a DNA test will prove Trunks is his son.”

Kakarot merely shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he was doing. Perhaps he couldn’t. Goku had always been willing to help others, and she wondered if this was something innate about him. Kakarot was far more abrasive, but he  _ was _ assisting them. 

They walked for another five minutes, past a series of single-storey buildings that looked crudely built, until they got to the last structure at the end of the dirt road.

“In here.”

Bulma followed Kakarot through a doorway, Gohan — with a sleeping Trunks in his arms — trailing in after her. The door closed automatically behind them, lights switching on at the same time, and she squinted as her eyes adjusted.

They were in someone’s house. It wasn’t as high-tech as she expected; brown cobblestone lined the floor, and the walls and ceiling seemed to be made of some dried mud compound. Small round windows were dotted in any empty wall space. A round table with four stools sat in the centre of the room, and benches and shelves holding a variety of items lined the walls.

“Is this your house?”

“Yes.” Kakarot seemed even more tense than before. It reminded her of when Vegeta had first come to stay at her place, and she’d stepped into his room. He’d been almost  _ territorial _ , and she wondered if it was a Saiyan thing. 

“It’s nice.”

He laughed, a sound far harsher than she remembered from Goku. “Cut the crap. It’s a shithole. I don’t spend much time here.”

“It’s functional. Look, do you have somewhere for Trunks to lie down? His sleep is all disrupted, and I think he’ll be out for a few hours.”

He pointed. “In there. There’s only one bed. I won’t be back until morning, so use it if you must. Do not leave this building. Do not let anyone enter it until I return.” Kakarot directed his stare at Gohan. “You got that, brat?”

Gohan frowned. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

And then he was gone.

Bulma turned towards Gohan. “Let’s get some sleep,” she suggested. Gohan looked as wary as she felt, and nodded wordlessly at her. They stepped through into Kakarot’s spartan bedroom, and found that thankfully he had a large enough bed to fit all three of them. They didn’t bother climbing under the covers (she was desperate for sleep, but not that desperate), and simply lay down, Trunks’ little body between them.

 

. . .

 

A noise woke her. The room was dark, and no light filtered through the windows. She had no idea how long she’d slept for.

She heard it again — the sound that had woken her — and turned her head towards the black shape on the opposite side of the bed. “Gohan. Are you crying?” It probably wasn’t the most sensitive thing to say, but she was still half-asleep.

He sniffled. “This bed smells like my Dad. This whole place smells like him, but he’s not here.”

“Oh, hon.” She reached out blindly, her hand landing on his head. She patted his hair, at a loss for what to say. 

“My Mom is going to be freaking out, if she’s still alive.”

_ Shit.  _ She’d been so caught up in everything she hadn’t given any thought to Chi Chi, who still lived out at Mount Paozu with her father. Gohan had only been visiting West City for the day when the Androids attacked.

“She’ll be okay,” she reassured Gohan. “No one goes to Mount Paozu; it’s literally in the middle of nowhere. The Androids only attack cities.”

“But when I don’t come home —”

“Gohan, there’s nothing we can do about it right now. I’m going to try and get us out of this mess as quickly as possible. I know you’re going to worry about your Mom — there’s nothing I can say to stop that — but you know that worrying about it won’t fix it, either. Your Mom’s a tough lady,” Bulma wiped at the tears that had formed in her eyes, “let’s face it, your Mom is  _ terrifying _ . She dealt with you living with Piccolo for a year when you were little; she will be fine.”

The bed shifted under her as Gohan rolled away from her hand. “You’re right,” he murmured, but he sounded unconvinced.

 

. . .

 

Kakarot paced quietly, glaring at the guards that stood on either side of the doorway. He was strong enough to take them both out easily, but knew that would only cause him more trouble in the long run. He grit his teeth; despite his strength, and despite his unofficial position as the King’s sparring partner, he was still treated as nothing more than low-class scum by the high-born guards and nobles that spent their days lazing about the Palace.

“I need to see the Prince!” he bellowed suddenly, rounding on the guards. The smaller one — a young female — flinched, but her towering companion remained as stoic as ever. “Prince Tarble!” Kakarot yelled, his patience wearing thin. “I request an audience immediately!”

“It’s the middle of the night, you idiot!” the large guard snapped, taking a step forward. The female raised her hand to her scouter, murmuring, no doubt calling for backup. Kakarot growled — he was standing right outside the Prince’s chambers — how deaf was the man?

“PRINCE TARBLE!” he screamed, pounding his fist on the wall. “WAKE UP!”

“Kakarot, this is your final warning,” the female finally spoke, lifting her arm towards him. A ball of ki glowed on the tips of her fingers. “Leave, and come back tomorrow at a normal time, and just maybe we’ll forget about this. Clearly you’ve been smoking too much  _ shushi. _ ”

Kakarot opened his mouth to say something snarky back, but the door behind the guards opened suddenly, and he snapped his jaw shut. The Prince emerged, a tiny figure between his two guards, and rubbed at his eyes. He wore loose robes in some exotic fabric, not doubt some gift from foreign royalty. “Kakarot? This is not really standard protocol.”

“Prince Tarble,” Kakarot bowed, forcing himself to  _ exhale _ and remain calm. He was not a patient man. “I require a private audience with you  _ immediately _ . It is important.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

Kakarot ground his teeth together, counting down from three in his head. “As I said, Your Highness, it is  _ important. _ ”

The Prince stared at him for a moment, his tail flicking to indicate irritation.  _ Yeah, I’m about as pissed off as you, _ Kakarot thought bitterly. 

“Fine, come in.” The Prince turned to the guards. “Have some tea and desserts delivered. And do make it quick.”

Kakarot smirked as he stepped past the guards. 

 

. . .

 

After Kakarot had finished his explanation, the Prince sat with the same unnerving stillness that Vegeta took on when he was truly mad. It wasn’t the reaction Kakarot expected from the small man, and it made the resemblance between the two brothers all the more prominent. 

“You’re certain this half-breed child is Vegeta’s?” Tarble eventually asked, his tone cold and severe. Kakarot didn’t miss the way the Prince wrapped his tail tight around his waist in restraint.

“The woman — the child’s mother — swears by it. And the brat looks like Vegeta; his colour is all wrong and he’s missing his tail, but there’s not doubting that his features are Saiyan. If you sat them side by side you’d see it. Anyone would.”

“Alright, then.” Tarble stood suddenly, turning his back. “I will dress, and order that a lab be prepared for testing. And then you will take me to meet this child.”

Kakarot rose from his seat. “I think Vegeta should be told first before any testing occurs. I have left him messages but they remain unseen. I came here to speak to you because I cannot find him when he hides his power level like this, but you can contact hi—”

“Kakarot! You are not in a position to tell a Prince what to do in this situation. If I want to know what you think, I will ask for it. For now you may wait outside, and I will meet you when I am ready.”

Kakarot bowed, taken aback by Tarble’s manner. He’d personally known the Prince for over a decade — they were the same age — and usually didn’t bother with formalities when speaking to him, unless others were around. It struck him that more was at stake here than just Vegeta’s ire; perhaps Tarble was upset by the news that Vegeta may have an heir?  _ Could  _ a half-breed be considered an heir?

“I’ll see you outside,” Kakarot murmured, swiping another pastry from the table and popping it in his mouth on his way out.

 

. . .   
  


Bulma left the boys asleep and slipped into the bathroom that adjoined Kakarot’s bedroom, sliding the door closed as quietly as she could. Like the rest of the house, the room was spartan, but she managed to find a fresh bar of soap and a clean towel under the vanity. It was similar enough to an Earthling bathroom to be unnerving, with a squat toilet (not her favourite, but manageable), and a shower in the far corners. There was even a small mirror, and she examined herself in it. She looked like shit, if she were being honest. There were purple bruises on her arms and around her wrists from the treatment she’d received on the slave ship, and a dried cut on her forehead she didn’t even remember getting. It must have been from the Android’s attack. 

She rifled around in the shelving unit next to the vanity, pulling out drawers, and found sets of armour, including one that had pink spandex and a breastplate that looked like it was shaped for a female figure. Her brows rose at that thought; so this Kakarot had a girlfriend, or a wife, or at least someone comfortable enough to keep her clothes at his place.

There was even a pair of women’s underwear, neatly folded. She picked it up, examining the lacy thong with distaste. “I am not that desperate,” she murmured.

She peeled off her own filthy clothes and threw them on the floor, stepping into the shower with the bar of soap. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and after spending a minute trying to work out how to use the damned thing (she bit her lip  _ hard _ to stop herself from squealing and waking the kids when cold water rained down), she used the soap to wash everything — even her hair.

Years of motherhood had trained her to have quick showers, so she was in and out as fast as she could, and toweling herself off when she heard a noise from one of the outer rooms. “ _ Shit _ ,” she hissed as she struggled to slip into the pink spandex bodysuit; yes it stretched, but it also bunched up when it came into contact with her damp body, and she grunted as she struggled to pull the fabric up over her breasts. It had an in-built bra, which made it  _ worse _ in terms of getting it on. Whoever owned this had no tits at all, because this was  _ tight. _

“Where is the woman?” That was Kakarot’s voice.

“In there.”

“ _ Don’t come in! _ ” she called, one boob still loose. She shoved her free arm into its sleeve and yanked the top up, finally covering herself. It was at that moment that Kakarot opened the door, catching her breathless and sweaty from her struggle. He stared at her as if she had two heads, and she caught sight of herself in the mirror — her blue hair wet and bedraggled, her cleavage straining out of the long-sleeve spandex, and the entire length of her legs (and half of her round ass) exposed by the bikini-brief bottom. 

“Look, my clothes were disgustingly dirty,” she explained, pointing to the pile on the floor. “I’m sorry to whoever owns  _ this _ ,” she added, gesturing to the pink suit, “but I wasn’t going to go walking around in a towel.”

Kakarot’s eyes ran back over her body, making her feel a little too exposed. When he met her gaze he spoke. “The Prince is here to meet your son.”

“The Prince? I thought you said —” she pushed past Kakarot, and came face to face with a Saiyan she’d never seen before; he was shorter than her and slightly built, and with a short flame of black hair, the same eyes, and a less severe version of a widow’s peak, he looked like he could have been Vegeta’s brother.

_ Oh. _

“Good morning, madam,” this Prince spoke, his eyes also sweeping her body in a quick appraisal. “Kakarot tells me you claim to have borne my brother a son.”

“You’re Vegeta’s brother?” She glanced at the boys on the bed; Gohan sat ramrod straight at the end of it, whilst Trunks curled into his side, rubbing his eyes with a fist.

“ _ King  _ Vegeta is my older brother, yes. I am Prince Tarble.”

Bulma nodded, making note of the way the Prince had corrected her. “Prince Tarble. It’s... nice to meet you.” She paused, looking behind him. “Is King Vegeta…?”

“I’ve been unable to reach him. Is that your son?” He eyed Trunks curiously, and Trunks frowned back at him.

“Yes, that’s him. His name is Trunks. He’s three.” She reached out and Trunks climbed into her arms, a reassuring weight against her. “My name is Bulma Briefs. I was hoping to speak with King Vegeta as soon as possible.”

The Prince gave nothing away in his expression. “I’m sure that will be arranged. Kakarot tells me you are adamant that the child be DNA tested.”

“Well if proof is needed then —”

“Proof is needed. I’ve arranged transport to the Royal Laboratory. Please, this way. Bring both children with you. No doubt we can ascertain the parentage of the other boy as well.”

Bulma bit the inside of her mouth as she saw Tarble’s eyes glance up at Kakarot with disapproval.  _ Oh shit _ . The resemblance between Gohan and his biological father was obviously clear to everyone. Kakarot seemed to glare at the Prince’s back, and Bulma suddenly felt very trapped between all these cold Saiyans. 

“Lets go,” she whispered to Gohan. He nodded, following closely behind her, and they stepped out into the street. The sky was red with early morning light, and there were a few Saiyans on the around that stopped and stared as she took the three steps forward and into the transport waiting for them.

There were other Saiyans — clearly the Prince’s entourage — waiting in the transport. Bulma took a seat furthest away from them and ignored their stares as Kakarot filed in last and the transport took off, rising quickly and curving towards the Palace. The craft was well-designed, with sleek curves inside and out, and a dark interior. She longed to be in the cockpit, to see what technology drove this thing.

Instead she took the time to take in the sights through the round windows; the village Kakarot lived in looked old and worn, a contrast to the suburb closer to the Palace where newer buildings glowed white under the rising sun.

“Class stratification,” Gohan murmured next to her, and she nodded, not at all surprised that he’d be so observant.

“You’re a smart cookie, kid,” she replied. She opened her mouth to say more about how obvious the class system was just from the buildings alone, but closed it again as she caught Kakarot staring at her. Her awe at the buildings and machinery dissipated as they approached the palace, the sheer reality of what she was about to do making her palms sweat with.

_ “I can smell your fear,”  _ Vegeta had snarled at her once, long ago, when he had first come to stay at Capsule Corp. She forced herself to take a deep breath, and then another, and another, reminding herself that she didn’t need to give these Saiyans any more ammunition than they already had. She had no power here, and to show fear would make it a hundred times worse. 

_ Stay calm for the children _ , she reminded herself.

 

. . . 

 

Tarble waited until they had disembarked from the transport before gesturing for Kakarot to join him at the head of the group. The woman and children followed behind, flanked by Tarble’s personal guards, and Tarble did not miss the way the woman’s eyes darted about the palace walls, taking in the sights.  _ The whore already taking stock of this place as if it is hers _ , he thought bitterly.  _ And after all Vegeta has done to Gure, to me! _

That Tarble was furious with his brother was an understatement. He had, much to his late father’s disgrace, inherited the pesky recessive gene for peace and non-violence that lingered in the Saiyan genepool. Despite that, he currently felt like tearing his brother limb from limb, or at least hurting him bad enough to put him in a tank for days.

Not that he could, but that was beside the point.

The fact that Vegeta had secretly fathered a child with an alien woman, while at the same time banishing Gure… it brought back all the fury Tarble had first felt when Vegeta had made his decision, just over a year ago. In the time since Tarble had come to terms with Vegeta’s arguments that a Saiyan Prince should have a Saiyan wife or no wife at all, and had accepted that sending Gure back to her homeworld before things had gone any further had been right, that it had been best for them all.

Now it seemed that Vegeta was nothing but a… a…  _ a fucking hypocrite!  _ Tarble could barely contain himself, thinking about it. His hands clenched and unclenched as he set a quick pace down the long corridor that led to the basement where the science labs were located.

Kakarot kept pace beside him easily, the tall man’s long stride twice that of Tarble’s. Kakarot was another issue. The man had said the other child’s father was unknown, but one look at the boy made it abundantly clear that it was a lie.

“That other boy,” Tarble began, speaking low in Saiyan so that his voice would not echo as they entered the stairwell that connected to the basement floors, including the labs, the crypt, and the dungeon. “He looks like he could be your brother. Or your son.”

Kakarot shook his head. “I swear to you, he’s not mine. I have a common face, that is all.”

Tarble shook his head. “And you found them in a slave ship?”

“Yes.”

“How did they get there?”

“I didn’t ask.”

Tarble bit his tongue, holding back the snide remark about incompetence. He was mad at his brother, not Kakarot, and he valued the _ friendship _ , if he could call it that, that he had with the commoner. Kakarot was the only person on the planet who dared to speak his mind to either of the royal brothers. Both Tarble and Vegeta knew that Kakarot carried great strength, strength that was possibly on par with Vegeta’s — _ or possibly greater, _ Tarble mused — and so Kakarot had become a training partner for Vegeta, and the only commoner to be welcomed in Elite spaces.

That Kakarot should have been classed as an Elite was another disagreement that Tarble had with Vegeta, but every time he brought it up the King would tear the idea down, saying _ “If merit and brute strength were the sole methods of determining class, where would you sit, Tarble? Your existence as a Prince relies solely on the fact that you have been born into this family. Do not disrupt the status quo, or you will disrupt the fabric of Saiyan society.” _

Vegeta was right, and yet Tarble felt in his bones that it was wrong. He disagreed with so much on Vegetasei on an ideological level. It was why he had spent so long on Planet Tech-Tech, why he had fallen in love with a pacifist alien. And Vegeta had taken her away.

That thought led him back to his anger, and as they entered the lab sparks ignited around him, making Kakarot stare. Tarble took a deep breath and willed himself to calm down. He would have it out with Vegeta when the King returned, once Tarble had gathered the evidence of his brother’s hypocrisy. The woman and child —  _ my nephew  _ — they needed his focus, and he sensed they needed his compassion, too. 

His anger could wait.

 

. . .

 

The Palace was so much larger than Bulma could have ever imagined, the architecture just as stunning inside as it was out, with high vaulted ceilings and patterned walls, all carved from what appeared to be marble. Huge windows let through the morning light, and she marvelled at the beauty of the sunrise on the horizon. The floor was made from a slightly darker stone, polished so smooth it appeared to glow in the dawn light.

The tiny Prince strode ahead at a quick pace (she still couldn’t believe Vegeta had a brother, but there was obviously a lot of things that were different in this strange universe) and she struggled to keep up. Gohan swept Trunks up onto his shoulders, and Bulma shot him a grateful smile. They passed door after door, until they reached a stairwell, and as they descended she kept track of how many floors they seemed to be passing, before they finally entered what she knew to be the lab.

It was brightly lit, and filled with alien tech that she had only ever dreamed about, but it was the huge internal window that drew her attention. Through the glass she could see a far darker room that seemed to have no end, where row upon row of glowing pods sat. A chill ran down her spine when she noticed that there were _ people  _ in them, or more specifically, babies. 

“ _ What?! _ ” she heard Gohan whisper beside her.

“It’s how they incubate their children, Gohan. Vegeta was created in one of those.”

“That’s…” Gohan’s mouth closed as his eyes darted behind her, and she turned around. The Prince was staring at her with a strange expression; he looked almost pained. In fact, all the Saiyans were staring; the guards, the lab technicians, Kakarot.

_ Shit, I forgot to say ‘King Vegeta’ again. _

“So, we’re ready for our DNA tests!” she said brightly instead, meeting their stares with an over-enthusiastic smile. Pairs of black eyes remained trained on her, their faces a spectrum of disapproval. One of the guards muttered something in Saiyan that she did not catch; but whatever it was it was bad enough to make the Prince splutter and bark orders, and suddenly all in the room sprung into action. She was ushered into a chair, as were the boys, and technicians gathered around, one taking her arm and swabbing in the inside of her elbow, while another stood poised with a needle.

“Mama!” Trunks cried out, bursting out of the chair he’d been placed into and jumping heavily into her lap. Her legs stung on impact, but she wrapped her free arm around him tightly. 

“It’s okay!” she said, trying to reassure both her son and the angry Saiyans that surrounded her. “It’s okay. Maybe just test us one at a time. I’ll hold Trunks while you take a sample.”

The technicians paused, glancing nervously between themselves before looking towards the Prince, and for the first time she realised that some of these workers were  _ afraid _ themselves, whether it was that they were afraid of the Prince, or Kakarot, or perhaps the King.

_ They’d be right to fear Vegeta, _ she thought as the needle pierced her skin. She watched her blood fill the tube quickly, the process so similar to blood tests on Earth that it was somehow reassuring. She’d had enough of those tests when she was pregnant with Trunks.

Even the small sticky plasters were similar, although they were round and black. “What is your date of birth?” the technician asked quietly.

“Um, shit. Are you asking for it in Galactic Standard years?”

The technician, a female with short hair, stared at her, her gaze unblinking. “Obviously.” 

Bulma sighed and did some quick calculations in her head; Vegeta had told her Trunks’ birthdate in Galactic Standard, only because of the sheer coincidence that it happened to fall on his Galactic Standard birthday. He’d turned thirty-three Galactic years old on the day of Trunks’ birth. That day, as she lay in hospital nursing Trunks for the first time, they’d worked out (or at least she had) that it made him thirty-one years and fifty-four days old in Earth’s measurement system.

“Ah, my birthdate is the 83rd day of the 19th month in the year 8032.”

The technician blinked. “Did you just calculate that?”

“Yeah. I cross referenced the birthdate of V — of  _ King _ Vegeta — and the birthdate of my son, as I know them in both systems. After that it’s simple maths to work out mine.”

The technician raised an eyebrow, while recording the date onto a tablet. The tube of blood was passed to another technician, who inserted it into a hand-held machine that obviously ran on the same network. “What are you?” the first technician asked.

“I’m a scientist. Mechanical engineering and quantum mechanics are my specialties, but I have training in biology, too.”

The technician stared again “What  _ race _ are you?” she asked, annunciating the word as if Bulma was a dumbass. One of the other techs sniggered, and Bulma felt her hackles rise.

“I’m a Human, from planet Earth,” she told them, holding her chin high. “Although I doubt that matters, given the fact that they are all dead. The planet was purged.”

“It’s just for the records, as an identifier,” the technician replied, typing at her tablet.

“If you need an identifier, you can use my name and title. It’s Doctor Bulma Briefs.”

“Your race will do.”

_ No it won’t _ , she wanted to argue, but they were already back, crowding around her and grabbing at Trunks, and she struggled to hold him still in her arms. “Shh, baby, just let them do this. That’s it, just look at Mommy. Tell me what it was like being in a spaceship yesterday.”

“It was exciting.”

“Was it?” Trunks jumped at the prick of the needle, his blue eyes going wide, and she grabbed his chin to stop him from looking at his arm. “And did you like the plane ride we took this morning? Did you see the pretty castle your Daddy grew up in?” She often told him stories about Vegeta; half-truths about a handsome prince. Fairytales so that Trunks could grow up knowing he had a father who cared about him. 

Trunks whimpered, but the test was thankfully over, and she let go of his chin to rub his back in small, soothing circles. “Oh my baby,” she whispered. “It’s okay.” She glared at the technician over the top of Trunks’ head. “You can type in ‘Trunks Vegeta Briefs’ as his identifier. That’s his name. He’s the son of your King, so a little respect here would be appreciated.”

The technicians were silent after that, taking Gohan’s blood without a word. 

 

. . .

 

Vegeta woke with the rising sun, and allowed himself the luxury of simply laying there on his inflatable mattress, staring up at the sky as the last of the stars disappeared whilst birds sang in the trees surrounding him, and a wildcat howled in the distance.

To be away from his royal duties, to train alone, to sit and breathe in the air of the planet he ruled over; these were simple luxuries that were rare, and that he did not take for granted. He’d given Tarble no more than the name of the continent he’d be on, Kakarot was offworld and so knew nothing of this excursion, and the members of the Court all thought he was on a diplomatic mission to the small Saiyan settlement on  _ Io _ .

He snorted, laughing to himself as the crescent of  _ Io _ , Vegetasei’s largest moon, rose above the treeline. They were all fools in the Court. It was why he had so desperately needed this time away, to train in peace without their incessant nagging and without his royal duties. To say Tarble had been unhappy about filling in was an understatement, but Vegeta had  _ kindly  _ reminded his little brother that as the brat got to piss around playing Prince for the rest of his life without barely lifting a finger, the least he could do was take up some proper duties and Regent for a week on the King’s behalf.

Vegeta glanced at the device that wrapped around his wrist. He’d picked the invention up on a backwater planet, the unlikeliest place to find something so high-tech. It cloaked the power level of whoever wore it, and so his power, which usually stood out like a beacon amongst the weaklings that surrounded him, was undetectable. It was his ticket to momentary freedom.

But the duties of being King were so ingrained in him that he reached for his scouter without a second thought, groaning as he read that he had over twenty voice memos waiting for him.

He selected the first message, from Kakarot yesterday. “Fucking useless…” he began to curse, but as Kakarot’s voice spoke clear and  _ bluntly _ into his ear, he found himself speechless at what he heard.

 

. . .

 

He’d listened to every single message; Kakarot’s to-the-point updates contrasting with Tarble’s  _ emotional _ ramblings about betrayal and that ridiculous alien female he pined over. 

_ “I am going to expose your hypocrisy, brother! You sent Gure away after fucking a foreign whore yourself!” _

Vegeta pulled his armour on automatically. He’d left the Palace for four fucking days and this had happened. The incompetence — from Kakarot’s inability to handle the situation himself, to Tarble’s insistence that he would get proof by DNA match — it was enough to make Vegeta’s blood boil.

Tarble needed a lesson in keeping in line and  _ listening _ . And Kakarot needed a lesson in squashing bugs before they became a nuisance.

And the bugs themselves — this alien woman who had lied her way into the Palace grounds — oh, she would pay most of all.

He removed the small band from his wrist. He’d let them know he was coming, at least. 

 

. . .

 

Gohan sat patiently while the tests were taken. The scientists spoke amongst themselves in Saiyan, whispering quietly. Gohan wished he could understand what they were saying as data streamed across the screens of their tablets.

He risked another glance at Kakarot, who stood leaning against a large piece of equipment in the corner. The sight of the man hurt Gohan in a way he hadn’t known was possible, bringing back all of the grief he held over the death of his father.  _ Daddy _ , he thought, closing his eyes _. I wish you were here.  _

Kakarot may have had his father’s face and his father’s DNA, but he was not Son Goku. His ki was the same and yet it wasn’t; it was poisoned, tasting dark and sick and twisted in Gohan’s brain. Almost everyone’s ki on this planet had the same twisted taste to it to some degree, although Gohan found that the warrior Saiyans had it the worst. The overall feeling of a million powerful Saiyans, all tainted with shades of evil, was overwhelming and enough to make Gohan feel nauseous. 

Gohan watched as the Prince — a man with a softer ki than most of the Saiyans, though his aura showed he was currently tormented by something — approached the scientists. They spoke in grave tones, and Gohan observed the way the Prince’s aura turned darker again. He was angry, and Gohan felt some of that anger directed at Kakarot.

His gut feeling was proven correct when the Prince barked out Kakarot’s name, and Kakarot came to bow before the Prince. Then the Prince lifted his hand, pointing at Gohan, and Gohan did not need a translator to know what was being said. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest as Kakarot glared at him, as the Prince spoke in quick, angry words.

“That is impossible,” Kakarot spoke in English.

“They tell me you were sent to Earth, where the woman claims to be from.” The Prince had switched languages now. “You purged the planet. Tell me how it is impossible when there is more proof of this than you can deny. That boy is your son, and you lied to my face, Kakarot. That is a treasonous offence.”

“I killed every fucking Human on that planet before I was ten!” Kakarot yelled, and Gohan wished he could be anywhere else. He did not want to hear his father’s voice say these things. “I hate them. I would never fuck one of them, weakling, useless creatures that they are. He is not mine!”

“Hey!” Gohan shook his head as Bulma stood, holding Trunks at her hip. “How dare you talk about us that way!”

“How dare you accuse me of —”

“I did not accuse you, your bloodwork did! But I can explain it,” Bulma continued. “We can both explain it, right Gohan?”

Gohan wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole as every face in the room turned to him. He had tried to tell Bulma this wasn’t a good idea. He didn’t want Kakarot to know who he was.

Still, it was too late now. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped as a piercing ki suddenly lit his head on fire. It was familiar in its intensity despite the fact that it was far weaker than it had been on Earth, and the dark anger that he sensed in it was something he had felt long ago, on Namek.

“Gohan, what’s wrong?” he heard Bulma say through the red haze in his brain.

“Vegeta’s coming,” he replied. “And he’s really mad.”

 

. . .

 

Tarble wasn’t wearing a scouter, but the way the boy spoke made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Beside him, Kakarot switched on his scouter, and promptly swore under his breath. 

“What does the scouter say about his power level?” Tarble asked, his genuine fear of his brother’s enormous strength at war with the fury he felt about the truths he’d just had confirmed.

“It’s over a hundred and eighty-nine thousand,” Kakarot replied. “And incoming fast.”

Tarble felt ill. For the first time since Kakarot had brought news of Vegeta’s illegitimate son, he began to question his decisions. He’d been so eager to collect proof of Vegeta’s deceit, so eager to argue on behalf of Gure, he had not considered how Vegeta would take the news of this woman’s appearance and the child she brought with her.

“How long until he arrives.”

“Minutes.”

Tarble pointed at the techs, who practically quaked with fear. “I want a print out of the data, now!”

 

. . .

 

Bulma tensed as Kakarot stormed towards her with a murderous expression on his face. “Gohan —”

“I’ve got him,” Gohan answered before she could even finish her sentence, and out of the corner of her eye she saw the teenager pick Trunks up in his arms.

“You,” Kakarot spat, stepping right into her personal space and towering over her. It was disorientating to say the least; Goku’s face staring at her as if he wished her dead, her body’s instincts crying out  _ friend _ while she knew this man was dangerous to the bone. His hand clamped hard around her arm, fingers digging into her flesh, and for a moment she feared that he would break it. “Explain. Now.”

“I might as well wait for Vegeta —”

“You think he’s going to give you a chance to  _ explain? _ I know for a fact that I have  _ not _ fucked that brat’s mother. He is not my son, even if that fucking blood test says so! It stands to reason that it is the same case with the King, and if so you have not just fucked yourself over, but me as well!” He was shaking her now, and her teeth clattered together painfully. “Explain!”

“Don’t hurt her!”

“Shut the fuck up, boy!” Kakarot bellowed, rounding on Gohan without letting her go. She shook her head at Gohan, willing him to stand down. Trunks was crying in his arms, looking terrified.

“I’ll explain, I’ll explain. Just let me go, I can’t feel my arm.”

Kakarot released her roughly, shoving her towards Gohan, who caught her with one arm. “Mama,” Trunks whimpered, but she remained focused on Kakarot, rubbing her arm where he had grabbed her. It stung as the blood rushed back to her fingers, and she knew she would bruise.

“We are from a different universe. I’m a scientist. I built a machine that can bend time and space so we could escape from our homeworld after it was attacked. We weren't supposed to end up here. In my universe you are Son Goku; you lived on Earth and you grew up as an Earthling, you married a Human woman. The you in  _ my universe _ fathered Gohan. It’s why the DNA is the same. It’s how I knew your Earthling name.”

“I do not have an Earthling name. My only name is Kakarot.”

“But you listened when I called you Goku. You knew the name. You know Gohan’s name, because that was the name of the man who found you in your pod when you were a baby.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“It’s the truth. How else would I know that you spent your childhood on Mount Paozu, living with Son Gohan, an old martial arts master. Did you look at the moon one day and transform into the Oozaru? Is that when you killed him? Is that when your purge started?” Bulma watched Kakarot’s face carefully, saw the moment in his eyes when he recognised what she was saying.

“You would have been eight in Human years when you did that. I’m right, aren’t I?”

Kakarot didn’t answer, but she could see his mind working, and watched the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes darted quickly behind her, settling on Gohan before shifting back.

“How could the Kakarot in your universe have married a Human after purging the Earth?”

“He didn’t purge it. When he was a baby he fell down a gorge and hit his head. His memories — all his knowledge about being Saiyan — that all disappeared. It was a traumatic brain injury resulting in global amnesia and slower processing. He  _ did  _ transform when he was eight, but he had no knowledge or memory of it; he only woke the next morning and found Grandpa Gohan dead and the villagers nearby described it as a monster,  _ a great ape _ , that had descended on Mount Paozu.

“He didn’t even remember his name; the only name he ever knew was Son Goku. I met him when I was 16 and he was 12. He was my best friend. He was my  _ brother. _ He  _ died _ … he died just over three years ago.” There were tears in her eyes, and she swore under her breath as she swiped them away.

The sound of a slow, mocking applause rang through the air and she froze, her breath catching in her throat as her gaze landed on a figure standing in the doorway.

_ Vegeta. _

Around her all the Saiyans knelt, their right hands clenched in a fist over their heart.

“A touching story,” Vegeta spoke, and her knees threatened to buckle under her. She hadn’t heard that voice in three years, and her reaction was exactly the same as it was with Kakarot; her heart simply couldn’t keep up with what her mind knew. This was not her Vegeta. The man who strode towards her didn’t give a shit about her — she could tell that immediately. His tone was cruel. He was pissed off. He would want retribution for what he saw as a personal offense to him, this connection she was claiming between them both.

She knew all of this, and yet more tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. Her grief felt new once more ( _ it was never old, it never ceased _ ), and she felt it like an open wound in her chest.

“How much did you hear?” she asked quietly, her voice shakier than she would have liked. She had planned to be strong in front of Vegeta. Strength was what he valued, not this.

“All of it. Although none of it related to  _ me _ . That you had Kakarot as a friend is, as I said, a touching story. But it does not explain how you came to be here, standing in consecrated Saiyan grounds, lying to my brother about a supposed relationship to  _ me _ .” He lifted his chin, nodding towards Trunks. “Please do not tell me  _ that _ thing is the brat you claim is mine.”

Bulma felt her hackles rise at his dismissal of Trunks. “He is the son of Vegeta the Fourth,” and as she spoke her voice began to rise in volume. “I am not here claiming that he is  _ yours _ ; he will never be  _ yours. _ I am here saying that he is the son of Vegeta from my universe.”

“Explain. Explain to me how the King of Saiyans in your universe came to father that child with you,” he sneered, looking at her as if she was no more than dirt under his shoe.

“Because he was never King. He left Vegetasei when he was five, and was offworld when the planet was destroyed by Frieza.” She hadn’t asked about Frieza in this universe, but at the mention of the name she saw Vegeta’s eyes flash in recognition, and beside him Kakarot — still kneeling on the floor — shook his head. She continued.

“The entire Saiyan race was wiped out because Frieza had recalled them all to Vegetasei. There were only four survivors: Kakarot, because he was on Earth, Vegeta, Raditz — Kakarot’s brother — and Nappa. No other survivors. No females.

“Vegeta lived as a slave under Frieza for over two decades, until he joined forces with Goku — with Kakarot — and Frieza was defeated. On my planet I was the richest woman alive, an heiress to a huge fortune, as close to a Princess as you can get without being royalty. I offered Vegeta a place to stay, a roof over his head and a warm bed and —”

“Why?”

Bulma was aware of the fact that every Saiyan in the room had their eyes on her right now.

“Because he had  _ nothing _ . He had no one. No people. No home. Goku couldn’t even speak a word of Saiyan, and the others were dead. He’d been our ally on —” she took a breath, stopping herself from revealing Namek. “He’d been our ally in fighting Frieza and I felt as if I owed him thanks, and giving him a place to stay was the best I could do at the time. All of our ships were broken so it’s not like he could even get off the planet.”

There was a silence that seemed to drag on forever before Vegeta spoke. “And you spread your legs for him in thanks, too?”

She reeled back as if he’d physically slapped her. “How dare you —”

“I dare because I am King! And  _ you _ , some raving madwoman scum —”

“Madwoman?! _Madwoman?!_ ” she repeated, stepping forward and poking Vegeta in the chest, all the tension from the past few days letting loose at once. Vegeta was wide-eyed, nostrils flaring in anger, but she didn’t care. “Do you think I want to be here, begging for help from strangers, on a foreign planet I don’t know and have no connection to? Do you think I want to be stuck here in a fucking alternate universe where my own race has been wiped out, and by _Goku_ of all people! You do not get to make jokes about _my_ Vegeta and my relationship to him. _I_ did not intent to end up here, it was an _accident._ But now that I am I’m going to make sure as hell that my son — Vegeta’s son, your _biological_ blood — survives. I promised Vegeta that I would protect our son. I promised him this when he lay _dying in my arms_ , and I have fucking fought tooth and nail to keep us alive for the past three years! I do not give a _shit_ if you don’t want to acknowledge Trunks’ existence, but for fuck’s sake, out of respect for yourself from a different dimension, just give us a break.”

She was panting, her voice raw, her finger sore from continuously jamming it into Vegeta’s breastplate. She flinched as he grabbed her wrist, his gloved hand a vice around hers.

Someone cleared their throat, and both of their gazes turned to Prince Tarble. At some point he had moved to stand beside them. “What do you need?” he asked.

“What?”

“What do you need? You said you swore an oath to the Vegeta in your universe. What do you need to keep it?”

Vegeta’s hand released her, and she felt as if she might float away. “Food,” she heard herself say. “My son has a Saiyan appetite. So does my nephew. They’re hungry. We’ve hardly slept.”

Prince Tarble’s face no longer showed any animosity towards her. He reached out, taking her elbow, and the gentle touch threatened to make more tears fall. “We can provide food and lodgings for you and the children.”

She was aware of how still Vegeta was as he remained standing in front of her. He’d always done this when he was furious. She ignored it, and nodded at the Prince.  _ “Thank you,” _ she whispered, using the Saiyan word Vegeta had taught her  _ “It is appreciated beyond what I can say.” _ In her peripheral vision she saw Vegeta’s eyes dart to her face, but she didn’t allow herself to look at him again. Tarble began ordering people around, and she found herself being led back out of the lab by the guards, Gohan walking silently beside her.

“Are you okay, Bulma?” he asked, whispering as they climbed the stairs slowly, and Trunks reached out towards her. She took her son into her arms, burying her nose in his hair as they continued to follow the guards.

“I’m fine.”

She didn’t pay attention to where they led her. She nodded wordlessly as instructions were given, as they were taken to a set of rooms that had wide windows opening out into a private garden. 

Food was brought, and she took small bites of the cakes and sweets, watching as Trunks stuffed his face and made an absolute mess. Gohan ate quietly. 

They were alone, the door to the suite presumably locked from the outside. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she told Gohan.

In the lavish bathroom she turned on the taps, the shower, anything that could make enough noise to drown out the sound of her sobs, and when she was sure the boys wouldn’t hear her, she finally allowed herself to collapse.

 

. . .

 

Kakarot had remained kneeling on the ground until every scientist and guard had left the room, his head bowed in deference to the King. He could sense Vegeta’s anger, and waited for the first blow to fall.

And as he waited his mind wandered again to the boy — _Gohan_ — the kid’s strange stares suddenly making sense. In some fucked up universe where he wasn’t even himself, he’d been that kid’s father. 

How ridiculous.

“Kakarot,” Vegeta spoke quietly. “I need you to leave now, and leave me to discuss matters with my brother.”

Kakarot nodded and rose. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He didn’t flinch as Vegeta’s fist came flying, landing a clear punch in his gut. He allowed it, accepted that this was the way of things, even as he coughed blood on the ground.

“I will discuss matters with you later,” Vegeta warned quietly. Kakarot nodded once more, and made his way out of the lab.

 

. . .

 

When they were truly alone, Vegeta turned to face Tarble. Under his gaze, Tarble appeared to shrink back in fear.

“Vegeta, I’m sorry.”

“You are going to  _ expose my hypocrisy, _ ” he quoted. “That was the message you sent me in the middle of the night.”

“I was under the impression that she, that you —”

“That I had done as you have done, and lain with an alien woman. I know.”

Tarble's’ tail twisted nervously behind him. “I was mistaken.”

Vegeta considered his options. He wanted to pulverise Tarble for his disobedience, for his lack of trust, for his foolishness. At the same time he was impressed; in all of his life, Tarble had never once shown such a spine as he had today.

If anything, it showed how much that ridiculous little alien meant to Tarble.

“When I leave you in charge of the throne, you are my agent. Your sole job is to consider what is good for  _ me _ ,  _ what would Vegeta do _ . You know this. What you did today was in breach of that. I’d be within my rights to kill you, brother.”

“I know.”

Vegeta could feel the balls of ki at his fingers. All it would take is a little power to fire a shot through the heart. “You’re lucky Kakarot exists to be my personal punching bag. Don’t let it happen again.”

Tarble bowed in a formal salute, taking the cue that he was dismissed. He paused at the door. “I suppose congratulations are in order, Vegeta. You  _ are _ a father, of sorts.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Vegeta snarled. “That child has nothing to do with me. With  _ either of us _ ,” he added, narrowing his eyes at Tarble. “Do  _ not  _ start playing ‘uncle’ to the creature. Now fuck off.”

Vegeta waited until he could no longer hear Tarble’s footsteps in the stairwell. Only then did he step through into the incubation room, walking through the rows of nursing capsules where babies slept in their artificial wombs until he came to his own, sitting alone at the top of a pedestal. 

It was empty, but the arrival of this strange, alternate son was a reminder that Vegeta had another duty he had yet to perform; the production of an heir.

The thought of this brought him back to the events of the morning, namely the child’s mother, the woman who had appeared to be a miserable weakling until she’d unleashed her anger on him, her blue eyes igniting with fire and fury.

No one, not even his father, had ever spoken to him that way. 

His tail curled lazily as he thought of it, and the fact that in some strange universe, he had lain with such a creature.

"Tch," he spat. He would have to speak with her, and soon, despite the fact that he did not want to be associated with her or her child. She'd mentioned Frieza, the destruction of Vegetasei, and a battle with the lizard himself. He needed to know details. 

And there was more that she was hiding. He could tell.


End file.
